The world of professional sport is a strange one - and I don't mean the machinations of owners and club executives behind the scenes. I'm talking about the world around the pitch, the rink, the stadium - the world of sports fans.Today, in England, a man lost his job as the manager of the world's most famous soccer (or, as it is known in the country of its invention: football - this is because the ball is moved around by the players' feet) club. His firing has been anticipated for some time - based on a series of relatively poor results - by the media and followers of the sport, and has been one of the most followed stories in the current season.Although it's been many, many years since I took an interest in football, it's been hard to miss this developing story and the glee with which the media have partially driven and partially ridden it, let alone the undisguised joy expressed by fans of rival clubs at the situation.As I may have mentioned before (but am now too old and fat to be bothered researching to make sure), I gave up any interest in football at the age of approximately eleven or twelve, after discovering the wonderful sport of rugby. For various reasons football couldn't compete with it, and there was a very sharp decline in my interest, despite being constantly besieged (and I mean it; there is an unremitting barrage of football TV and other media in the UK which assault the senses almost everywhere you turn) by news, gossip and match coverage.Since leaving the UK the level of obsessive coverage has of course diminished, only to be replaced by similarly mind-numbingly dull and repetitive nonsense on the subject of hockey and what North Americans call 'football' (an even worse travesty of the word 'sport'). I've been only dully aware of the soccer world as a result, but the international fame of Manchester United has meant that stories about that club frequently spill over into my daily news absorption activity.Having been the dominant force in English soccer for around twenty years, the reign of Manchester United has come to an abrupt end with the (suspiciously judicial, at the height of their powers) retirement of their rather tyrannical former manager and the employment in his place of a relatively success-free man by the name of David Moyes. It's fair to say that his year in the job has been less than stellar, but by the same token, less than a total disaster. Nevertheless, the club hierarchy - and more to the point, the club's fans - have decided not to pursue the experiment any further, and he has today lost his job. It's business - not sport - and with the big pay cheques come big responsibilities, big risks, and sudden arrivals at the exit door. It's been that way for many years, and that is not what troubles me most.Here's my problem: this man Moyes has been subject to unpleasant, snide and downright nasty abuse, ridicule and humiliation for months now. Some of it has been from his own club's fans (who apparently will accept nothing less than total success) but most has been - as far as I can tell - from the fans of rival clubs, who have not so much revelled as positively wallowed in his professional and personal difficulties. Today, the undisguised glee and delight at this man publicly losing his (very well paid) job has frankly been sickening to witness - and it's been everywhere I turn; on Facebook, online news, TV, etc.. What I've witnessed is not just the kicking, but the gleeful, sadistic and brutal stamping and gouging of a man when he's down; the mob descending like cowards upon a beaten man to cackle, crow and gloat over his misfortune. It makes me sick.No matter how people may try to claim that their deeply personal attacks are and have been aimed at the club rather than an individual, there is a man at the centre of this story: a man with a family and relatives who will all be feeling shock after a year of intense pressure and no little amount of emotional strain. Still, cowards who have never shouldered his responsibility or pressure, who have never walked a footstep in that man's shoes, will continue to spread their poison at his expense.This reprehensible attitude to a person's misfortune, based as it is on a sporting rivalry - and why should that excuse any kind of bad behaviour, by the way? - tells me that football and the groups that defend it are dead to me; I will never again be concerned with it or anyone's interest in it, because football has little or nothing to do with sport or sportsmanship any more. It's changed beyond all recognition, and it is a hateful thing. Unfortunately, it also tells me something alarming about the nature of today's society in the UK. I'm alarmed to witness such an outpouring of irrational hate on the internet, a venting of emotions which, if they were real and face-to-face would doubtless result in violence. In these moments, societies disgrace themselves, and in this moment, I very reluctantly confess to being ashamed of how my countrymen and women are behaving in public. A line has been crossed, and I doubt that there is a way back.

Do we only see what we wish to see? Do we - unconsciously or otherwise - block out the undesirable elements of our lives and focus upon things which make us feel good - or at least do not make us feel sad or scared? I wonder - and I know in my heart that I certainly have been guilty of doing so at various points of my life - and in truth, I will probably do so again.

When I was a much younger man my greatest fear was death. I had inherited a morbid terror of the end of my life, and in particular a fear of dying from any one of the most well documented causes - with, of course, the exception of extreme old age (and even that didn't sound like something to look forward to). My method for keeping the subject at more than my own - and The Grim Reaper's - arm's length wasn't new or innovative, although it seemed to work for me. Basically, my unconscious meme convinced me that death was something that happened to everyone else, that in some magical yet undefined way I was special and as long as I didn't do anything really stupid (I wasn't at all immune from doing ordinarily stupid things) to put my life in danger, I would be OK. Even that "OK", however, was a generic, vague statement; the mere suggestion that I would be safe from death had about it the ring of tempting fate (or a higher purpose for me), and I didn't want to go there! I just didn't want to think about dying.The result was that the subject of death rarely entered my conversation, even though in a professional capacity I frequently came face to face with it in many circumstances, from the horrifically traumatic to the comfortingly peaceful. Indeed, perhaps because I sometimes dealt with the deaths of others, the idea of it always being someone else's problem became cemented in my mind. The foolishness of the young was alive and well within me.

At that time (almost twenty five years ago) the concept of hospice was just beginning to enter the public consciousness in my home country of England. I was aware of the idea, and of the existence of a pioneering facility within my work area (if you haven't already guessed, I was a British 'Bobby'), but nothing in my life at that time, not even the knowledge that my parents were entering the final third of a typical life span, inspired me to think on the subject in any way other than fleetingly, and even then only to quickly - and deliberately - steer my thoughts away to happier things.

I passed the hospice many times each working day, but the thought of dropping in (as we were encouraged to do in order to foster community ties), if it ever entered my head, flew out just as quickly. Until...one night, working with a much older (and wiser) officer, the matter was taken out of my hands as we pulled our patrol car into the grounds of a surprisingly modern-looking building for the express purpose of sampling the nurses' tea-making prowess. I had never even set eyes upon the hospice building before - a result of my reluctance to acknowledge its presence - and now I was confronted with it. My suppressed fears about death, sickness and hospitals rushed out of the dark recesses of my mind to the very front and made themselves known. My mouth became dry, I began sweating a little as the adrenalin kicked in and a slight - but definite - tremor took hold of my body.I made no protest as we walked towards and through the rather fine entrance doors (to do so would have seemed less than manly, after all), but I was braced for a depressing scene of suffering, sadness and sorrow.

What greeted me instead was a warm, bright lobby which immediately led into what I still remember today as a place of wonder. Knowing the reason for the existence of the hospice and its daily work, the experience of stepping into a truly beautiful living space, one wall entirely made of glass and looking onto a marvelous greened courtyard, was genuinely amazing. My mouth quite literally gaped as my eyes were opened onto a place of wonder which above all exuded love and caring as well as an atmosphere - incredibly to me at that time - of happiness and peace. It was 3 o'clock in the morning, and almost everybody was wide awake.

I blinked, confused and looked around in something of a daze. From where I stood I could see into several rooms, each of which, although clearly functional and professionally equipped, had more of a feel of a homely bedroom than a hospital room. One or two faces were turned towards me, and one lady sat up in her bed, a book in her hands. Each of the faces - miraculously, it seemed to me - broke into a smile, and I found myself unable to resist waving and smiling in return. I felt myself being changed in those moments - changed by those people, knowing that their twilight was upon them, generously giving of themselves within such a wonderful environment. I felt suddenly, with goosebumps covering my skin, that this was not, as I had assumed, a place of death; it was instead quite the opposite - a place where people did some very high quality, very real and very important living.

Within the next thirty minutes I met some enchanting people, both carers and the cared-for. I met people with an amazing passion for caring (in every sense) for other human beings; people for whom making another person's final few months, weeks or days the best that they could possibly be, was as important as breathing. I found myself deeply moved by their depth of professionalism, by their love of their fellow humans. In addition, I also had the privilege of meeting several people whom I was ultimately saddened to never see again; people for whom every moment was precious, every spoken word, every conversation, so much more meaningful than I had ever been aware of. These people were really living every moment., perhaps living more intensely than ever before.

They were special, every one of them - special not only because of their calm, peaceful outlook on their unique situation but also because of the gift they were able to give to me, an ordinary young man, having his eyes gently but definitely opened about the true meaning of the well-worn phrase; 'quality of life'. Too soon, we had to leave that amazing environment behind, but I know - I knew then - that I left it a changed man. I returned there when I could in the ensuing years (and never found it any less wonderful) although a relocation soon made it impossible to continue, but I have returned there regularly in my heart ever since.

Hospice is a concept every bit as important to society's attitude towards human life as the concept of medically supported birth - it's simply that fundamental. The idea that as a species we should not do everything we can to make the end of life experiences of our neighbours, our brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers as comfortable and at peace as we possibly can, seems a very strange one. The structure of our society currently requires that hospices are almost entirely funded by charitable donations, but hopefully that will one day change and we will be able to properly finance, with public money, facilities which offer a truly amazing caring experience for the ailing, their loved ones and friends.

This is what hospices do at the moment - somehow. Filled with special people - caring, loving individuals working as caring, loving teams, they provide incredible levels of flexible (the rule seems to be that there are no rules!), tolerant, enabling and empowering care for us all, whether we face death ourselves or face losing a loved one. They are places of living where life is celebrated in the tiny things as well as the large (and I maintain that the tiny things in life are so often the most important), where life is enjoyed as much as possible and where our loved ones are allowed to leave the world with dignity, surrounded by love and care at all times. They are places of nurturing, of nourishment and of contentment. Such important places deserve not to be in the shadows of our collective consciousness but celebrated in our communities for the amazing, incredibly important service they promise and deliver.

They are invisible rainbows: because we do not - or choose not to - see them, we cannot properly appreciate them. Only when we stop looking the other way and we open our eyes to the hospices and what they achieve will we be able to appreciate their true colours; their true worth and their importance to each of us and to our society. If we allow them to, they will touch all our lives in immensely positive ways. I hope that as a society we can open our eyes and our hearts to these transformational organisations within our communities.